


praise for the mother (the third)

by BabaTunji



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Morality, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, King Killmonger, M/M, Multi, Pregnancy carried to term after earlier miscarriage, Pregnant Sex, Pseudo-Incest, Wakandan Empire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22639312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabaTunji/pseuds/BabaTunji
Summary: Shuri dies during the battle at the Great Mound. Ramonda demands restitution.
Relationships: Erik Killmonger & Ramonda, Erik Killmonger & T'Challa, Erik Killmonger impregnates Ramonda, Ramonda/T'Chaka (Marvel)
Kudos: 12





	praise for the mother (the third)

**Author's Note:**

> My love and enduring thanks to AgentMal and madeinessos (you guys rock)  
> Title is from "Praise For The Mother (O Virga AC Diadema)" By Hildegard von Bingen

N’Jadaka is not sorry. Perhaps things would be better if he were. If his eyes struggled to meet her own, if this pitiful attempt at reconciliation was met with the level of brevity it deserves. Instead he greets her with a smile, sly and sharp. He had agreed to the terms, to the tradition of equivalence. The understanding that the former Queen mother was owed something precious. What he had taken. What she would never get back.

Her heart hurts and her eyes are empty for tears. This is so far from her future imaginings as to be another universe. An incorrect one, where her daughter was dead and her son might as well be. The uncharitable thoughts fill her until she feels like surely, she will overflow from grief, from loss. Surely she can not cry another tear. She is empty, she is cold, she is so very angry. Angry enough to wreck everything in her path, to destroy what has been so gently held together by her late husband and the many Kings and Queens before him. 

They will not let her, they being the council. The concerned few, the general, and a woman she hoped would someday be her daughter in marriage. They will not let her, hence pitiful reconciliation, this pithy offering. They can not return her daughter to her, nor will they allow her to destabilize the fragile ‘peace.’ So they bargain for equivalence. What she lost can not be replaced, can not be exchanged for anything of similar value, sixteen years, that incorrigible smile so much like her father and—She raises her hand to slap the man, her nephew by marriage. 

Her hand stings from the force after it meets the landing of his face. He had seen her hand move, and had not moved away. The smile is gone at least. It is not enough, she wants to hit him till he bleeds, dig into eye sockets and pick the delicate flesh. She wants to hurt him more than he has hurt her. She takes a deep shaky breath and wills him to disappear, to die, the way he should have. They are not alone, safety concerns and traditional dictate. If N’Jadaka moved to strike her, Dora Milaje would step in. If she acted too many times in anger they would also step in. The rules are different for each of them. 

His expression melts into indifference, she hates it, she hates him. There is paint on her arms, her forehead, her belly. Protection sigils, wishes and hope for the future. She is too old for this, to be trying again at what she’s succeeded at only twice before. Three is an odd number, her first is no longer king, her second is dead and her third. Her third child would be heir presumptive. That is their bargain, that is the leash that she allows them to put around her neck. She has been injected with a stream of stimulants, fertility and assisting drugs. She knows it will be unnecessary, not while the herb ran through her nephew’s veins. The issue had never been the quickening, just the delivery.

She has no words for him, nothing meaningful or profound or strong enough to encompass her hate and her wish for his eternal hurt and eventual death. 

She doesn't undress, leaving her green long dress shift as is. She will not bare herself for him, rather he lay bare for her. There are modern ways to avoid this, she could have chosen. But she like her parents before her and the entirety of her tribe is mindful of rituals like this. The exchange could not be reduced to a sanitized courier. No, she wanted to face N’Jadaka when she took his seed, when she denied him and any children he fathered elsewhere the right to claim what was rightfully her children's. She would rob him the way he robbed her, and then maybe, maybe the pain in her heart would be lighter. Maybe she would find some way to step away from the overwhelming rage that called her to do worse than deny him.

“There’s no bed.” 

The first words out of his mouth since she stepped into the room. She casts her eyes about the room, gathers her wit and her emotions. They didn’t need a bed for this, no this was perfunctory. No love, no lust, no comfort. She sets a hand on his shoulder, he doesn’t flinch away at the touch. She contemplates slapping him again, pinching the flesh maybe? Nothing that would truly hurt the herb reinforced body in front of her. She presses his shoulder down, a command to lower himself. He remains still, her frown deepens at his refusal. He should know to obey, know what he forfeit if he refused her. 

“Get on your knees.” The effort to speak, to address the wretched, awful—He levers down to his knees. She watches his progression warily. There is no need to draw this out, as long as he spent inside her, however he got to that point is up to her discretion. She could be as detached or intimate as she liked. She could—she could hurt him. Nothing permanent, but oh the memory of humiliation had its own sort of permanence. She will never forget the way he treated T’Challa. But she does not have the patience to be cruel, she wishes she did. Wishes she could separate the warm strength of domination, the sweet submission T’Chaka and others had offered her from this traditionally sanctioned burglary. Then maybe she would reach and tease him, hold him down with the strength of her gaze alone, make him tremble for her. 

N’Jadaka would never beg her. She sees it in the set of his jaw and the strength of his posture, even on his knees. His victory if one could call it that had been hard-won. His tumultuous control of the tribes—all five of them now, cracked with caveats and compromise. The latter is a dirty word to her. N’Jadaka had stolen her son’s throne and her daughter’s life. But soon he would be married to her son and her child would serve as heir. Reparation, a thick wet paste to glue the cracks and hold the center—Wakanda’s survival within. She draws closer, her hand settling in the thick locs of his hair. He had wanted T’Challa to be present, she had not. This isn’t anything to be proud of, if he struggled to get his cock hard that is not her problem, he should have asked for drugs. 

N’Jadaka doesn’t need drugs. 

He mocks her, once he’s inside and they are flush against each other. He tells her he wishes she were T’Challa but her old ‘cunt’ would have to do. She crushes his windpipe in retaliation and ignores the pleasure in his eyes, waits for this specially ordained rite to end so she could distance herself from the familiarity in his cheekbones and his eyes. She misses her late husband with such strong intensity when his damned nephew ejaculates inside her. She moves away first, allowing the excess to drip down her thighs and onto the floor. Conception might be happening right now, but she would have the younger man as many times as she could, this was a one time occasion after all. After today she would have no way to seek this sort of reparation, no way to hurt N’Jadaka without hurting T’Challa as well. The incestuous knot that would keep the Udaku line united through the firestorm N’Jadaka has begun. 

The second time is easier. She lifts her dress up, just enough to allow the act, her back against a wall and N’Jadaka in between her legs. The fuck as animals might, simple breeding. She feels nothing besides the low satisfaction of ensuring justice. 

Her nephew is not attracted to her, not moved by a body old enough to have birthed him or eyes that promise to kill him at the first opportunity. She imagines he is pretending that she is her son and it makes her eyes clench closed in disgust. At the thought, at the slight understanding of what drove him forward. N’Jadaka hasn’t bed T’Challa yet. He probably never would, not if T’Challa’s resolve held and he gained the upper hand the way she hoped he would. But her nephew could dream, and she saw those dreams reflected in the way he fucked her, the words he murmurs in between thrusts. It sickened her, and she wondered, not for the first time what it would mean to have such an unscrupulous, dishonorable man father her third child. 

Her husband had been honorable, too honorable. Had he less honor, this man between her legs wouldn’t be alive. To kill her daughter, to take her son to marry. She cradles the thought and sighs when the 2nd act ends. N’Jadaka could go again, several times in fact, but she is tired and sore. One last time, one last time and she would release him. 

*

Pregnancy does not suit her. It hadn’t when she had been young and it didn’t now that she is old. Her son, her lovely T’Challa frets over her. In between meetings and talks, agreements and decisions that would affect not just them but millions of people outside of Wakanda’s borders. She tells him she is well, her doctor tells her she is not. Pregnancy is difficult on young bodies, let alone a woman in her fifties. One with a history of miscarriage and difficult pregnancies. She prays every morning and on saturday evenings at the temple. For her late husband and daughter, for this third chance. Some afternoons, when it is too hot to do anything but lie down and sleep she thinks of the future. What name would she give this third child? What would she give in sacrifice to deliver safely, to hold this promise in her arms and raise them? Anything, she thinks, and the world echoes her sentiments. 

Wakanda is at war with itself, with foreign powers. Yet Ramonda feels no feels no fear, not for the eventual outcome secured with marriage and blood and agreement. She watches and interferes yes, when it concerns internal affairs and tribal politics. She leaves the rest of the world at the mercy of her nephew and her son. Saves her worry and discontent for the growing fetus within her, her rising blood pressure and her reducing strength. There are phases and plots and misdirection, around Wakanda’s borders and throughout the world. She measures the time in trimester and weekly checkups. Some days it seems as if time is moving at a snail's crawl, others she wishes time would slow down. Let her breathe, crystallize the little moments before the inevitable. 

N’Jadaka pays her visits. It disturbs her at first. They might be family yes, bound thrice over with two marriages and now blood. But she has no love for him, no affection. He persists despite her obvious coldness. She thinks he feels some attachment to his progeny. But he knows better than to make any sort of claim to it. This fetus if it survived birth would be hers alone, not his. Bast willing his campaign might kill him before the child grows past it’s first years. She has never wished so much ill on one person the way she does for N’Jadaka. It is perhaps unhealthy. 

He brings gifts, sometimes, for the child he tells her. She throws them away, fearing poison or some other nefarious tool. She ignores him as much as it is possible, tending to her health and her remaining son. T’Challa is worried enough for both of them, and has to deal with N’Jadaka more. They commiserate together, bound tighter in grief and purpose. But some things are too private, too unspeakable. She dreams sometimes, about N’Jadaka. Bad dreams where-in she is more vengeful. In others she makes him pleasure her fully and not just the perfunctory bout of 3. Some take place elsewhere from that room but he still whispers the same filth. Even in her dreams, he is lustful for her son. 

T’Challa in turn does not tell her about his dreams. She watches him sometimes, he looks so tired. Once when N'Jadaka visits, T'Challa is still present. It makes for an awkward interaction. N'Jadaka with his gift and T'Challa with his dark demeanor, protective anxiety mixed with barbed threats. Threats neither of them can act on. Not while things are held in the current limbo. N'Jadaka looks contrite when he leaves, it chills her more than T'Challa's reaction. She wishes they would spend less time with each other. She does not like the way N'Jadaka is changing and it is change. Not for the better no, rather to ensare her son. T'Challa is not a fool but he is vulnerable, he is not infallible.

N'Jadaka pays her a visit one night, more than halfway through her perilous pregnancy and she does not turn him away. The visit feels… inevitable. T'Challa will not let N'Jadaka have him. Not even in hateful jest. N'Jadaka is candid and bold in his desires and his failure to gain that desire. Ramonda tells him she might allow him. If he is very still, if he begs her. She is cautious of course, a part of her expecting foul play or attempted infantacide from N'Jadaka eventually. But he makes no such obvious attempts and is almost perfectly obedient. She enjoys three powerful orgasms that night, and the dreams change. 

She is still vengeful but now N'Jadaka obliges, and his death, or removal is less pronounced. In the dreams he calls her auntie and trembles for her. 

Nakia visits her days after she is confined to bedrest. The young woman greets her warmly bearing gifts and news. They talk until late. Nakia’s eyes glow with something akin to religious fervor and when she speaks it is only of good things and a bright future. The Nakia who whisked her and her daughter away is replaced with the Dog of War who carries out her king's orders with relish. They both skirt the topic of her dead daughter and Ramonda finds herself inquiring about the young woman's family, her fathers. The next time she checks the time it is past midnight and she bids Nakia to stay, to rest tonight and breakfast with her in the morning. There are other rooms, comfortable guest rooms Nakia could stay, but she has made herself comfortable in Ramonda's large bed. 

Her body is overhot from pregnancy hormones and excited at the younger woman's presence, her touch. For hours, at different times Nakia has been massaging the flesh and muscle. She is not surprised when the young woman offers her comfort. Nor does she refuse. Nakia handles her with care and reverence. It soothes Ramonda greatly. When she climaxes, it holds her entire body in a different sort of rapture. Nakia is so, so good. Nothing like N'Jadaka. The comparison after an hour well spent, catches her off guard. Nakia is better than N'Jadaka. Nakia being not only her tribeswoman, but also appropriately sensitive and lovely. 

N'Jadaka is nothing. 

In the morning while she and Nakia eat, her son pays her visit. If he's caught off guard by Nakia's presence he doesn't show it. T'Challa had loved her once, but Ramonda can not see that love now. Buried in grief tinged games of politics and allegiance. T'Challa is too kind, too honorable to ever voice the thoughts she knows must come to his mind when he rests with Ramonda on hot afternoons. But they are there. She wonders if he has allowed N'Jadaka to bed him. Then she rebukes the thought. Even if N'Jadaka sought her out again she would rebuff him. N'Jadaka does not seek her out again. Ramonda is not disappointed. 

Three weeks before she is due, her water breaks. The position is wrong. Her midwifes had hoped it would change before the date. They cut her open gently and pull out a small wrinkled child that refuses to cry. Ramonda cries for them, heavy huge sobs for dead children. Waits tiredly and so, very angry for the doctors to resuscitate the child. She had stayed in bed for this tiny creature, eaten what she should and avoided what they told her to. Sometime during the process N'Jadaka enters the birthing room and Ramonda is overcome by a killing rage. Fortunately for everyone, her child chooses that very moment to let out their first mewl. Weak and throaty but distinguishable from the adult voices and the machines in the room.

N'Yami is born with an unusual lung disease and a horrible cry. Ramonda loves them, watches them every moment she can, when she is not being forced to sleep or sedated, 'for her own good.' 

T'Challa had been away when N’Yami was born so he meets his youngest sibling, Wakanda's heir more than a month after they are born. He dubs them 'perfect' and Ramonda agrees. 

She does not allow N'Jadaka to see the child. That first moment in the birthing room is enough. N'Yami is 6 months old when the campaign in South Africa for sovereignty starts to turn. The immediate losers declare bankruptcy, the economic systems N'Jadaka and T'Challa have so expertly made lame, fall. The world ends for many and something new emerges. 

T'Challa is away for weeks at a time. She follows the news and politics obsessively. It's too early to claim success. But the news is good, the tide is turning and then T'Challa is captured.

They do not tell her that of course. But she deduces it after 2 weeks of silence from him, and no specific mention on his location in official reports. She goes to find N'Jadaka. She finds him disheveled and dark-eyed. She tells him to find her son and he asks to meet his daughter. She denies him, then barters, hours after frantic coupling for such a visit. She tells him she will introduce them, the next time T'Challa comes home.

T'Challa does not come home for months. N'Yami turns one and Ramonda ignores N'Jadaka the few times he trails the two of them in the gardens and at the public square. 

When T'Challa finally comes home, after months of being held hostage followed by a deep cover hunt for Wakanda’s enemies. He does not come to see her. She watches footage of his arrival over and over, can't quite summon her usual disdain for how N'Jadaka corrals T'Challa or hold it against her son for finally giving in. It's inevitable isn't it?

One warm afternoon, almost 5 weeks after T'Challa returns home, he visits her. N'Jadaka in tow. 


End file.
